Monster
by Enimsaja Snape
Summary: Jim Moriarty's no longer himself these days. He's little more than a child locked in his room at the psychiatric hospital. Sherlock is no longer himself either one floor below Jim. But why doesn't he want Jim to know he's there? And why are Mycroft and John so upset? OOC characters. Slash. Language. Drugs. Sheriarty. Angst. Maybe fluff at some point. Maybe PaternalLestrade.
1. Chapter 1

**Monster**

**Chapter 1**

**AN: My very first Sherlock story! The idea to me while I was listening to Eminem's "Monster," and that's where the title came from, but this isn't really a songfic.**

**It will be pretty OOC, but you'll see why.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to BBC and ACD.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock buttoned the last button of his purple shirt before pulling on his coat and trying his scarf around his thin neck. He looked in the mirror and sighed. His strange-colored eyes were tired. His dark curls fell limply across his forehead. He was not prepared for this today, but he knew it had to be done. As much as he was dreading this, he was thankful to Mycroft. None of this would have been possible without him and his "minor position in the British Government."

The disapproving-looking woman behind him cleared her throat. He gave his hair a half-hearted ruffle before following her out of the room. The ride in the lift was silent.

Following the woman out of the lift and down the hall, Sherlock tucked his trembling hands into his coat pockets. He put on a blank mask as they came to a stop at room 331. He could hear terrified screams coming from behind the door punctuated with the occasional sob. Neither he nor the woman batted an eye. She pulled a card from her pocket and swiped it before opening the door and allowing Sherlock to enter the room.

The sight that met his tired blue-green-grey eyes broke his heart no matter how many times he had witnessed it. The room was mostly empty, save from a chest of drawers, a bed and the man perched on the bed. The man wore a wrinkled pair of plain blue and white pajamas. His big brown eyes were red and wide with fear. His dark hair looked as though someone had rubbed a balloon over it. He was curled up in the corner of the bed sobbing and begging someone to "make it stop." On the chest sat a tray with two cups, one filled with water, the other with three pills. Two blue, one orange.

It was obvious that this wasn't new to Sherlock as he grabbed the pills and the water before sitting down on the bed.

"James." That one word made the distraught man immediately quiet.

"Sh-sherlock," he whimpered, "M-make them stop. Please, make it stop." Tears streamed from his eyes, and mucus dripped from his nose. He looked nothing like the man he was before.

"Take these and it'll stop," Sherlock said holding out the pills.

"What are they?" James demanded.

"They'll make it stop. They'll make it all stop. I promise."

Sniffling and trembling, James grabbed the pills and shoved them all into his mouth. Sherlock knew it probably wasn't good for him to take them all at once like that, but no one cared as long as he took them. He pushed the cup of water into his hand before he could swallow them dry.

Once the water was gone, Sherlock placed the cup back on the tray and grabbed a tissue from the box on the chest.

"Let me clean your face." He frowned at how quickly the medication took effect. The brown-eyed man was as docile as a lamb as he scooted forward and allowed the other to wipe the tears and mucus from his face.

"Blow," Sherlock instructed, holding a clean tissue to the smaller male's nose. The sound was disgusting as he complied.

The curly-haired make tossed the used tissues on the tray before turning back to the docile man.

"Sherlock?" The voice was hesitant and child-like. A far cry from how it used to be.

"Hm?" The pajama-clad man inched forward until he was pressed against his companion's side

"Th-they don't like me here," he whispered, "They…they hate me. They say things…awful things…I know they're talking about me."

"They're all idiots, love. They're just jealous of how brilliant you are," Sherlock murmured, slipping around the trembling form.

The former consulting criminal continued to tremble for a moment before springing back to look up at the curly-haired man.

"I drew you a picture of me," he said, scrambling off the bed and going over to the chest.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice the way the pajamas hung off of his thin frame. He always seemed bigger, taller in suits. Westwood. Now he looked like a child drowning in those pajamas. He was digging around in the bottom drawer. He grinned in triumph as he pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper. He clambered back onto the bed, tucking his feet underneath him and held out the paper proudly. The taller man almost smiled at the drawing that was presented to him. A man, Jim, clad in a grey suit sat on a bright red thrown. A matching crown sat perched on his head. There was a large grin on his face.

"I'm King Moriarty," Jim said, grinning.

"Does that make me your queen?" Sherlock murmured.

"Hmm, yes! You're **my **Queen Sherlock, and that means that you can't ever leave me, okay?" The words were spoken lightly, but there was a desperate gleam in those brown eyes.

"Of course," Sherlock said, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Jim sighed in contentment and shuffled closer to the other man.

"Has Seb come to visit you?" Sherlock asked, running his long fingers through messy hair.

"No," came the quiet response, "he hates me."

"Why would he hate you, Jim?"

"Cause I'm in here. He hates me for being here."

"I'm sure he doesn't. It's not your fault that you're in here."

"Then why won't he come see me?"

"I-I don't know."

Anything else that might have been said was interrupted by the door opening and the disapproving woman standing there expectantly.

"Jim? I have to go now, okay?" Sherlock said softly.

"I don't want you to go," the smaller male whimpered.

"I know, but I'll come back soon."

"Promise?"

"I promise." He detangled himself from the other man's grip and kissed his forehead before standing. "Promise me you'll try to behave?" he said, running his hand through messy hair once more.

"Promise," Jim whispered, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs.

The moment Sherlock followed the woman out of the room, his mask fell. He looked even more tired than before, and his strange eyes were filled with pain. The ride in the lift was once again silent.

Arriving at room 221, the woman swiped her card and opened the door before holding her hand out expectantly.

Sherlock stepped inside of the room and stripped down to his underpants, not bothering to hand the clothing to the woman. He grabbed the rumpled pajama bottoms and t-shirt from the bed and pulled them on. He pulled a worn blue dressing gown on over it before collapsing onto the bed. He vaguely registered a bracelet being re-wrapped around his wrist before the door shut, leaving him alone in a room almost identical to the one upstairs.

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Please review and let me know what you guys think! Like I said, this is my first attempt at a Sherlock fic, so I'm super nervous about it. I'm not sure how long this is going to be, but I'll try to update soon.

**ES**


	2. Chapter 2

**Monster**

**Chapter 2**

**AN: This chapter should explain everything. Also, I didn't say it in the first chapter, but I believe this counts as AU. It's definitely not canon. Also, season three never happened in this story.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to BBC and ACD.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

No one was pleased with the sudden change between Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty. John Watson and Mycroft Holmes in particular. Everyone knew and understood, to a point, that Sherlock was intrigued by the "games" that Moriarty played with him. It kept him from going mad with boredom. It kept him from driving John mad when he was without a case. It kept Mycroft and Lestrade from worrying about him falling into old habits. But the desire to avoid boredom soon turned to pleasure. Suddenly, there was a happy gleam in his eyes whenever Moriarty was involved.

Then suddenly, the "game" seemed as though it was over. No more cases that led straight to Moriarty. No more puzzles created just to make Sherlock "dance." No more puzzles for him to figure out. But the strangest part of all was that Sherlock didn't seem too upset about it. He didn't sulk around in his dressing gown. He didn't shoot the wall out of boredom. He didn't seem to believe that Moriarty was just biding his time before he did something big. It was as though Jim Moriarty and the mess he had caused ceased to exist. This didn't give John any relief. Something didn't seem right. Something was wrong. It couldn't be over that easily. It couldn't be that simple.

He was proven right one day, several months into their Moriarty-less period, when he walked into the flat and found the consulting detective and consulting criminal curled up on the sofa kissing lazily. Jim had his fingers tangled in the taller man's messy curls. Sherlock had his long arms around the smaller man's body, which was clad in the detective's infamous purple shirt.

"What that…Bloody hell, Sherlock, what's going on here?" John's voice went up an octave in his shock.

Startled, Jim pulled away from the kiss and fell to the floor. Sherlock stood, graceful as ever, and helped him up.

"It's obvious what's going on, John, even to you. We were kissing, but then you interrupted. I'm beginning to understand why it bothers you so much when I interrupt you and your girlfriends."

"I know that you were kissing. I saw that. What I want to know is why?"

"Jim's a good kisser."

Said man giggled at this.

"Sherlock, you know what I mean."

"Maybe, I should go, love," Jim said, grabbing his shirt from Sherlock's armchair, "We'll continue later."

"Love? Are you two serious? What the hell is going on?" John demanded. The doctor's hands clenched by his sides.

Sherlock took his shirt from Jim and slipped it on, not bothering to button it up. He waited until Jim was dressed and gone, with a kiss goodbye, before turning back to his flat mate and friend.

"Sit down, John, and I will explain," he said, taking a seat in his chair and crossing his legs. Somehow, he still managed to look almost regal with his unbuttoned shirt, rumpled hair, and bare feet.

John perched on the edge of his own chair, back ramrod straight, his hands still clenched into fists. What explanation could his flat mate possibly have for what he had walked in on? He stared expectantly.

"Jim has changed, John."

John didn't know whether to snort or scoff.

"You can't be serious."

"I know it seems foolish and naïve of me to believe this, but if it was not true, surely I'd be the first to realize it. I'm too clever to be fooled even by Jim Moriarty."

"I can't deny your cleverness, but how could Moriarty suddenly change? What could possibly make him change?"

Sherlock was surprised to feel his face heat up slightly.

"Me," he said, flushing lightly.

"You can't be serious, Sherlock. Jim Moriarty, the world's only consulting criminal, just decides to give up crime and murder and manipulation because he's in love? I don't buy it, and I can't believe you've fallen for this. I thought you were above sentiment and emotion. What happened to you being married to your work?"

"I was certain that that was the case, but it makes sense that Jim would be the exception. Even you must see it, John. We're so similar. Our minds…He's the only person in the entire world who even remotely understands me. All of my life, people have been telling me to be normal, try to form a meaningful relationship, and I've finally done it. So John, I'm asking you, as my one and only friend to be happy for me."

John Watson stared at his best friend in shock. This was all said in the consulting detective's usual rapid deducting tone, but John could see the emotion in those multi-colored eyes. Fear, excitement, happiness, pain, desperation. He had finally found "normal" happiness. He had finally found someone who understood him and the way he thought. And he was so terrified that it was going to be taken away from him. The former army doctor sighed.

"Sherlock…you are not normal. You've probably never been normal, and you will probably never be normal. Tell me that this thing with Moriarty is not your attempt at becoming "normal." Tell me that, and I promise to drop this whole thing."

"It's not."

"Alright then." With that, John got up and headed into the kitchen to make some tea. He still didn't trust Moriarty, but he trusted Sherlock.

Mycroft's reaction wasn't any better. He scoffed at his brother's giving into sentiment and his naivety. But he also demanded to know how John could have allowed it to happen.

"Despite what you think, I'm not his bloody keeper," John had said angrily, "He's a grown man, and he's going to do what he wants, and this is what he wants. I'm not saying I suddenly trust Moriarty because I don't, but I do trust Sherlock. He's happy, and he's not hurt, so all I can do is make sure he stays that way, which I will."

Lestrade's reaction was pretty much the same as John's and Mycroft's response. Though John was slightly miffed at being expected to take responsibility for Sherlock and his actions, he did feel responsible for the consulting detective and whatever happened to him. It was his unofficial job to keep him safe.

Jim Moriarty's sudden change had everyone on edge. What no one knew was that Jim truly did love Sherlock. They really were alike. They were both clever geniuses who despised being bored. They just had different ways of dealing with their boredom. But out of love for the consulting detective, Jim truly did try to give up his "method" of dealing with boredom. He tried to work on "the side of the angels." He helped solve crimes instead of committing them, and he was extremely useful. Like everyone else, Lestrade was wary and suspicious of Moriarty's motives, but he couldn't deny that Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes working together were a force to reckoned with.

But, of course, no good thing ever lasts. Sherlock and Jim had been together for almost a year when he started to notice a change in Jim's behavior. He was moody and distant. He would lash out at Sherlock often. His mood was always worse right after they had solved a case. While Sherlock, and John if he remembered to invite him along, was on an adrenaline high, Jim was already itching for more. For once, Sherlock failed to see. Solving cases was starting not to be enough for Jim. He was feeling less and less stimulated. At times, he felt like his mind was unraveling. He needed more. So many times, he was tempted to go back to his "methods" of dealing with boredom, but he didn't. Or, at least, not at first.

He knew about Sherlock's previous drug problem. He remembered how he said it stimulated his mind and gave him so much clarity.

The first time Jim did cocaine, he nearly overdosed. His older brother, Sebastian, found him the next morning in the bath tub surrounded by the smell of vomit. He told his brother it was food poisoning and made sure not to make the same mistake twice.

The first time Jim did cocaine intravenously instead of snorting it, he almost broke up with Sherlock. Instead, he decided to go back to being a consulting criminal in secret. This worked for a while, but as he began to use more and more, the less it helped.

Under the influence of more than half of what he usually used, he created Richard Brook, a new consulting criminal, and nearly ruined Sherlock's career. It was the biggest high of his life. When he came down, he found himself standing on the roof of St. Bart's with Sherlock observing him.

"You've been doing drugs for three months, three weeks, and two days. You've been a consulting criminal again for two months, three weeks, and two days. You have an undiagnosed mood disorder among other things. And I've been an utter imbecile."

"You're so clever," Jim said, grinning, "so so clever."

"And yet so stupid. I honestly believed you had changed."

"Oh, don't be too hard on yourself. I did change for a while, but being good is just so boring. I do regret not being good enough for you though. I don't like being this way, you know."

Sherlock saw a desperate gleam in his large, dark brown eyes, which made him panic just a little. The dark pupils were so enlarged; he couldn't even see the whites of his eyes.

"You could try something else. Anything else," he said, taking a step closer to him.

"I've tried, and nothing works. Even after all of this, I'm already growing tired of this. It's only a matter of time before the boredom becomes so bad that the only way to relieve it will be to do something that I'll hate myself for."

"Jim…" For the first time in maybe forever, Sherlock was at a loss for words.

"There's nothing left to say, love," Jim said, taking a step back. He was only a step away from the edge.

"Jim please…"

Before he could utter another word, Jim took that final step to end his own life. But what he didn't know was that in his drugged state, he had stood on the wrong side of the roof. So instead of plummeting to his death right in front of Barts, he fell into a half-empty skip, critically injuring himself.

Sherlock, though, didn't find this out until hours later when Mycroft had to retrieve him from his nearly-catatonic state on the roof. The elder Holmes had to physically restrain him to stop him from lunging himself off of the room. It wasn't until the older man shouted that Moriarty hadn't died that Sherlock stopped his attempts. He immediately demanded to see Jim. By then, Moriarty had been brought inside and treated and was comatose. Mycroft was reluctant to use his minor position in the British government to allow Sherlock access to Jim, so only his brother, Sebastian, was allowed in the room. Sherlock threw a fit, not unlike the temper tantrums he used to throw as a child, and Mycroft finally relented.

Moriarty didn't look any different aside from the bandaged wrapped around his head. An outside observer might think he was just sleeping.

Sherlock demanded to be allowed to stay with him until he regained consciousness, but no one was willing to allow it. At his wits end with his younger brother, Mycroft called John and had him take Sherlock home, where the detective proceeded to lock himself in his bedroom for the entire three weeks that it took for Jim to regain consciousness.

It became clear that it would be necessary to allow Sherlock to see Jim when the man woke up screaming the detective's name and refusing to be calmed. No one could deny that Jim Moriarty really had changed this time. The moment Sherlock stepped into the hospital room, Jim launched himself into his arms, sobbing and whimpering like a child. Brain damage on top of whatever undiagnosed mental issues had been suffering from before changed Jim Moriarty more than anything else could. No longer the man he used to be, instead of being sent to jail, he was sent to a mental hospital. The best in London with the help of Mycroft Holmes. On the condition that Sherlock get help as well. Sherlock of course refused at first. He didn't think he needed help. He didn't see what everyone else saw. His eating and sleeping habits were even worse than before. He was obviously traumatized after seeing his boyfriend jump to his death, even though he didn't actually die. And Mycroft wasn't certain that he wouldn't make his way back up to that rooftop. And Mycroft was certain that his younger brother was close to going back to his old ways. So eventually, Sherlock agreed to get help on the condition that Jim never found out. And with Mycroft's "minor position in the British government," he made it happen.

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**This chapter's a lot longer than the first…I think. I hope it answered all of your questions. Sorry if the ending seemed rushed and/or awful. I really wanted to get this chapter out. I'm usually terrible at updating stories, so I wanted to get this chapter up while I was "in the zone." I hope you enjoyed it! Please review! Even if you didn't enjoy it, review anyway! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Monster**

**Chapter 3**

**Season three never happened in this story. Hope no one's confused anymore. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to BBC and ACD.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"You went to see him again, didn't you?" John asked.

He and Sherlock were sitting on a sofa in an empty room on the second floor. Sherlock didn't want to risk meeting the doctor in the actual visitor's room. Jim didn't really get visitors, but he was holding out hope that his brother, Sebastian, would visit soon.

"I had to. They couldn't get him to calm down and take his medicine. He's even worse when he doesn't take his medication," the former detective said quietly. His legs were drawn up to his chest, and his blue dressing gown was draped over his thin frame.

"You're not doing yourself any favors, Sherlock. You're never going to get better and get out of here if you're focused on him."

"He's not getting better either," Sherlock whispered.

"So you're just going to stay here forever? The two of you? Is that what you want?"

"I want…" The curly-haired man slid his pale hands down to his bare feet and tugged on his toes, rocking slightly. "I want him back." He squeezed his pale eyes shut to the point of pain. "I want him back. I want Jim back."

The former army doctor's heart clenched at the obvious pain that his best friend was in.

"I know it hurts, and it feels like you've lost Jim, but letting yourself get worse and worse isn't going to help him."

"I can't help him anyway," Sherlock muttered, opening his eyes and allowing a single to slide down his cheek.

"Sherlock…would you rather Jim to have died when he fell from that rooftop?"

"He might as well be dead. He's not him anymore. I'm sure he'd prefer that as well if he knew who he was before he became this…this broken man-child that he is now."

"But, who he was before…he wasn't exactly perfect."

"Are you suggesting that he's better off the way he is now?"

"I'm just saying that before, despite the fact that he loved you, and I'm not denying that he did, he was a consulting criminal. He enjoyed making our lives a living hell. Not even his love for you could change that. You may not be able to have that same relationship with him, but he's still in your life, and he still loves you. But before you can focus on him, you need to focus on yourself."

"There's nothing wrong with me, John."

"They wouldn't have admitted you here if there was nothing wrong with you."

"They would if my brother, the British Government, forced them to, which I'm sure he did."

"Yeah, he had a hand in it, but you still had to be psychologically evaluated."

"Mycroft probably paid them to say I'm suffering for a variety of mental disorders. He's been trying to section me for years."

The blond doctor sighed. He knew it was pointless to continue arguing with the other man.

"Just promise me you'll try, okay? That's all I ask," John said.

"I'll try," the curly-haired man mumbled.

* * *

Sherlock sat in his usual chair in group therapy. His knees were pulled up his chest, and he tugged on his bare toes as his pale eyes darted from face to face. He knew almost everything about each patient despite their reluctance to share. It had been almost a month, and he had yet to speak during group therapy. Every time the sharing stick, which was nothing more than a toilet paper roll that looked like it had been decorated by a four year old, came around to him, he immediately shoved it into the hands of the next patient with a fierce scowl.

Tessa, a petite blonde mousy girl, handed the sharing stick to Sherlock after admitting to self-harming for over twelve years, which was dreadfully obvious from the sleeves of her jumper. The former detective clutched the stick, prepared to pass it on before pausing. His knuckles were white from gripping the stick so tightly. Everyone stared at him in expectation, curious as to what piece of knowledge they were finally going to learn about the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.

"I tell everyone that I'm a high-functioning sociopath, but I'm not. I know I'm not." He said nothing more as he passed the stick on and curled up in his seat once more. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

That was how the next few group therapy sessions went. Sherlock would offer up one small bit of information that usually created more questions than answers.

"I had never had a friend until I was thirty-four years old."

"Up until the age of twelve, I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up."

"I hate the word…_freak_ more than anything in the world."

"Up until the age of thirty, I hated myself."

Sherlock still went to see Jim, which still wore him down, but there were some good days. There were some days where things felt they might actually be okay.

* * *

Once again, Sherlock, clad in a button down, black trousers, and his Belstaff, followed the disapproving-looking woman to room 331. Luckily, this time there were no screams or sobs to be heard. And when Sherlock stepped into the room, the scene was much less heart-breaking.

Jim Moriarty sat in the middle of his single bed, bundled in a thick purple blanket with his only his head of messy hair and big brown eyes sticking out. Those big brown eyes were glued to a worn book laid out in front of him on the bed. He was poking a thin pale arm out of the bundle of blankets to turn the page when he caught sight of the man standing at the door.

"Sherlock!" Brown eyes widened even more as a beaming smile stretched across his face.

"Hello, Jim," Sherlock murmured, taking a seat beside the bundled up man, "Cold?"

"Mm-hm," the smaller man said, nodding and sniffing, "The lady said I was getting a cold."

"I'm not surprised with as cold as they keep this place." As he said this, Sherlock slipped off his great black coat and held it out to the other man.

Grinning, Jim wiggled out of the blanket and pulled on the coat, shoving his thin arms into the too large sleeves. He sighed in contentment as he snuggled into the wooly fabric that still smelled so strongly of the detective even though he hardly wore it anymore. Now bundled in the blanket-like coat, Jim shuffled across the bed until he was pressed against the other man's side.

"Did you bring John?" he asked, sniffling, after a moment.

For some strange reason, Jim had been asking Sherlock to bring the army doctor to visit him. Having no idea that he had almost killed the doctor before, he seemed to be very fond of the man whom he had only met once after his accident. He found the other man comforting, and he also really like his jumpers. But John couldn't get over everything the other man had done so easily even if he was no longer that man.

"Not today, Jimmy. He has to work," Sherlock said, running his fingers through the other man's hair.

"Fixing people," Jim said quietly, "He fixes people at the hospital. Why can't he fix me?"

"He's not that kind of doctor. Your pain is on the inside. John can only fix pain on the outside."

"The doctors here can't fix me either."

"You're still having night terrors then?"

"They're awful. I do awful things in them. I hurt people. I hurt you and John. I don't want to hurt you. You're my friends. But I do in the dreams."

"Hurt us how?" Sherlock asked. He had never asked about Jim's nightmares before. He figured he knew what they were about. And if he didn't, the he didn't want to know.

"I put a bomb on John, and you were really scared, but I just laughed. And I blew John up and he was everywhere, and you were screaming at me and crying, and I just kept laughing. I wanted to stop. I tried to stop. I tried to die, but I ended up killing you, and I just kept laughing, but I wasn't happy. It was so scary, Sh'lock."

Sherlock could feel the smaller man tremble with sobs as he burrowed into the taller man's side. He turned sideways and pulled Jim so close that he was almost sitting in his lap.

"It's okay, Jimmy. I know you don't want to hurt us. We know that," he murmured, rubbing the distressed man's back, "Try not to think about it, okay? What were you reading before I walked in."

"Harry Potter," Jim said softly, pulling away to look up at Sherlock with red-rimmed eyes. His hair was a mess, his cheeks were splotchy, his nose was red and runny, and his lips were chapped from biting them. Despite all of this, he still looked adorable to Sherlock. _Not that I would ever say that out loud, _he thought as he pressed a kiss the man's slightly warm forehead.

"Clean your face and I'll read with you," he said, handing him a tissue from the chest of drawers.

Once Jim's face was clean and he had a few tissues clutched in his hand, they moved to lean against the headboard with the book. Jim curled up against the other man's side as he opened the book the page Jim had left off on. For the new half hour, the only sounds in that room were Jim's sniffles and Sherlock's deep baritone voice reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone until they were forced to separate once more.

Days like that made Sherlock want to try harder to get better so that he and Jim could have more of those days.

* * *

**Sorry I probably took forever to update. I'm so horrible about updating in a reasonable amount of time, but I'm trying. I hope you're enjoying this. Please review! I'm going to work on the next chapter right now!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Monster**

Chapter 4

Season three never happened in this story.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to BBC and ACD.

* * *

221B Baker Street was quiet. 221B wasn't supposed to be quiet. There should have been experiments going on. There should have been a violin being played at inappropriate times. Gunshots should have been ringing out from boredom. There should have been yelling at the telly.

The silence was driving John mad. He sighed and stood to get another cup of tea. Before he could even move, he gasped and nearly fell back into his chair. Standing in the doorway to the sitting room, in his impeccable three-piece suit, was Mycroft Holmes.

"Jesus, couldn't you have knocked?" John said, one hand over his pounding heart.

"I did. Mrs. Hudson let me in. She told me to 'go right up'," the other man said, leaning his trademark umbrella against the wall before coming into the room and sitting down in Sherlock's chair.

"Well, would you like some tea?"

"That would be lovely," the older man said, inclining his head.

Mycroft had been to the flat enough for John to know exactly how he took his tea. Once both men had their cuppa, John sat back down and stared at the other man expectantly.

"How is my brother, John?" he finally said after taking a sip of his perfect, though he'd never admit it, tea.

"Why don't you visit him and find out?"

"We both know he wouldn't appreciate that."

"He doesn't appreciate most things you do, but that doesn't stop you from doing it."

Mycroft just stared at John until the blond sighed.

"He's doing okay, I guess. He'd be doing a lot better if he wasn't so focused on Moriarty. You know they've got him giving him his pills and calming it down? That's their job, not his. Being forced to see him like that is not doing Sherlock any favors."

"No one is forcing him to do anything. He asked to be allowed to check on James Moriarty in exchanged for being checked into the hospital."

"And you just allowed it?"

"It was either that or have him escape."

"Escape? He can't−"

"He's Sherlock Holmes. He can and he would. I'm doing what I must to keep my brother alive."

"But just because he's alive that doesn't mean he's getting better."

"Will it make you feel better if I visit him?"

"Yes."

"Very well."

* * *

Sherlock sat in the empty room waiting for John. He was looking forward to letting him know that he had been trying. He wouldn't be happy about him still seeing Jim, but hopefully, he'd be glad to hear that he'd been trying to open up more in group therapy. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself as the door opened.

"You are not John," he groaned.

"Very astute observation, brother," Mycroft said, closing the door and sitting down beside his pouting brother.

"I didn't expect you to visit me."

"Doctor Watson insisted."

"Of course. For a moment, I mistakenly thought you actually cared."

"You sound as though you actually wanted me to visit you of my own accord."

"It's not as though I've got any other visitors aside from John."

Mycroft watched his brother out of the corner of his eye. He had unconsciously shifted closer to the older man, something he'd tended to do as a child. The elder Holmes said nothing, but he stretched his left arm along the back of the sofa.

"You've been participating in group therapy," he said, watching the younger man shift even closer.

"I promised John I would try."

"And have these efforts of yours paid off?"

"How should I know? I don't even know what's supposedly wrong with me."

"The same thing that's always been wrong with you. Only it's gotten worse."

"You really think there's something wrong with me, Myc?" The curly-haired man's head was now resting on the other man's shoulder.

"Nothing that can't be fixed, brother dear." Mycroft had to fight the urge to run his fingers through his brother's disheveled curls, something he hadn't done since they were children.

"The doctors aren't even trying to help Jim, Myc," Sherlock exclaimed after a moment, pulling away from his brother, "All they're doing is locking him away and plying him with medication. Well, they get me to do that part."

"And you no longer wish to do so?"

"No…no, I mean, I'm the only person who's helping him. I'm not going to stop. That's why you're here, isn't it? John sent you to force me to stop seeing Jim."

"How likely do either of those things seem? When did I start taking orders from John Watson?"

"When those orders involve trying to force me to do something." The two men stared at each other.

"How likely is it that I'd be able to force you to do anything?"

"Maybe you're going to sit on me with your fat bottom," Sherlock mumbled, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Please don't though. There's no need. I'm already here where you wanted me."

"That's less to do with me and more to do with James Moriarty."

At the mention of the former consulting criminal, Sherlock's gaze dropped and his hands moved to grip his toes.

"There isn't much that can be done for Moriarty," Mycroft said, "There's no 'fixing' him, but…if you were to improve enough to be released, I might be able to get him released into your care. Then you wouldn't have to worry about any mistreatment that might be occurring."

"And how will I know when I've 'improved' enough?"

"You haven't had a case in over two months."

"Yes, what's your point?" Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"You haven't had any mental stimulation. You haven't uttered the word 'bored'."

"Most people would see that as an improvement."

"A drastic change in personality after a traumatic event is not an improvement."

"It wasn't that traumatic," Sherlock mumbled.

"I had to stop you from throwing yourself off of a rooftop. That is not something I wish to experience again."

"I won't−"

"You've thought about it. At least, three, no four times."

"But I'm not going to−"

"No, you're not," Mycroft said, cutting him off, "That is why you're here."

Sherlock let go of his toes to fold his arms across his chest, a petulant frown on his face. He looked so much like his five year old self. Mycroft almost smiled. Instead, he stood and smoothed out his suit.

"Well, I must be going. A country to run and all that."

Sherlock continued to glare at nothing in particular until the other man reached the door.

"Grover hasn't visited me," he said.

"Who?" Mycroft's nose crinkled in confusion.

"Grover Lestrade," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "He hasn't visited me. He visited when you forced me into rehab, but he hasn't visited me since I've been here."

"First of all, his name is Gregory. Second of all, would you like for him to visit?"

The younger man shrugged and refused to look up at the other man.

"Good day, Sherlock."

The moment Mycroft left the room, a nurse entered to lead Sherlock to his individual therapy session.

* * *

While Sherlock was giving his therapist a hard time, Mycroft was making a phone call to a certain Detective Inspector.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking," Greg Lestrade said as he answered the phone.

"Hello Gregory," Mycroft said, staring out the window of one of his expensive black cars.

"Oh, hi My, I mean Mycroft," Greg said, clearing his throat, "Something I can help you with?"

"I just came from a visit with Sherlock. He was complaining about not getting a visit from you, Grover."

"Grover? Oh, that's a new one. Wait, he wants me to visit him?"

"He pointed out that you visited him rehab."

"Yeah, but he didn't seem to appreciate it very much, so I decided not to bother him. I'm not avoiding him if that's what he thinks." There was no response from Mycroft. "When am I allowed to visit?" Greg asked.

* * *

Sherlock was once again sitting in an empty room waiting on his visitor. John or Mycroft, he thought, Hopefully John. He frowned as he tugged on his sock-clad toes. One of the nurse had forced a pair of black and yellow stripped socks on him since his insistence on walking around the institution barefoot had caused him to catch a terrible cold that still hadn't completely gone away. His frown deepened as he wiggled his toes in their confinement. He started to pulled socks off when a voice stopped him.

"You probably want to keep those on. They seem to keep it pretty cold in here," Greg said, standing in the doorway.

"You're not John or Mycroft." He had forgotten mentioning Lestrade to his brother during his visit. Stupid medication.

"Good. Extra points if you can tell me what my name is. I'll give you a hint. It's not Grover," Lestrade said, removing his coat and taking a seat next to the younger man.

"Mycroft told you."

"If you wanted me to visit, you could have just asked. I would've visited much sooner if I'd known. I wasn't avoiding you."

Sherlock just stared down at his sock-clad feet.

"Okay, maybe I was avoiding you a little," Lestrade said, slipping his arm around the other man's shoulders, "I just knew it would be hard to see you like this, sunshine, but that wasn't fair of me."

Sherlock sniffed, it was the cold, and leaned into the older man. "You've started smoking again," he mumbled after a moment.

"I haven't started back. I just had one. Days ago. I'm surprised you can smell it."

Sherlock snorted.

"Of course, I shouldn't be surprised. You catch everything." Lestrade could feel the young genius curl in on himself. "That's part of what makes you so brilliant," he said, leaning down to kiss the head of curls.

"You still think I'm brilliant after I got involved with Jim Moriarty?" Sherlock asked.

"A lapse in judgment doesn't make you any less brilliant."

"I still love him. Even though, he's not the same, I still love him. I probably always will."

"You can't choose who you fall in love with, sunshine. You know I never thought less of you because of that, right?" Lestrade said, running his fingers through dark curly hair.

"Everyone seemed to think I was making a terrible mistake. Maybe I did."

"You were happy."

"I was stupid and blind."

"Love tends to do that to you."

"All the more reason to avoid it."

"But you said you still love him."

Sherlock hesitated before saying, "…I do."

"Do you get to see him in here?"

"Yes," he said, nodding, "Some days are good, but some days are bad."

"That's usually how it is in here."

Sherlock pulled away to look at the DI with narrowed eyes. "What would you−"

"What would I know about it? I've spent some time in a place like this after the divorce. I wasn't handling it well at all, so I took some time off work and checked myself into a hospital for about a month or two."

"After your divorce…we were working together then," Sherlock said, frowning, "I would have noticed your sudden absence."

"Remember that month you had to deal with Gregson?" Lestrade smiled as realization flooded pale blue eyes.

"That's where you were. How did I not realize−"

"You were too busy ranting about Gregson and Donovan and Anderson, and then−"

"Dealing with a relapse." Sherlock pressed himself back into the older man's side.

"Yes well, the point is I know what you're going through. You're going to be okay, Billy."

"Don't ever call me that," the younger man growled, elbowing the DI roughly.

"Sorry," he said, wincing as the bony elbow connected with his ribs, "I was just getting you back for calling me Grover. At least, Billy's actually your name."

"It's a moronic abbreviation of a very dull part of my name."

Lestrade laughed and kissed his curls again. "Good to know you're still you," he murmured.

"Mycroft has been telling you about my apparent drastic personality change." Lestrade said nothing. "I am just well aware that asking for a case at the moment would be useless as you cannot receive help from someone in my current situation."

"It's not that I don't trust you. I know you could solve any case from here, but I'd get into so much trouble."

"I am aware of that."

They sat there on the sofa in silence for about fifteen minutes before Lestrade had to head back to work. Sherlock stared down at his feet so Lestrade wouldn't see the disappointment that he knew was written all over his face. He didn't think about the reason for that disappointment until he was in group therapy sharing about the closest thing he'd had to a father since his died when he was just a boy.

* * *

**I won't bore you with apologies for my lateness. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Ch. 5- Monster**

* * *

Sherlock sat in his room fiddling with the hospital bracelet on his arm. His nurse had just replaced it for the eighth time. He was supposed to be getting a visit from John. He was also supposed to be visiting Jim at that same time. He wanted to see John and tell him about how he had been trying to get better. He also knew that John didn't like the fact that he visited Jim. But he wanted to tell Jim what Mycroft had told him. He wanted to give him something to look forward to. He also wanted−needed− to see Jim for his own piece of mind. Sometimes he forgot that Jim was, technically, okay, that he was alive. Some mornings, including this morning, he woke up thinking Jim had succeeded when he jumped from that building. No matter how much the nurses assured him that wasn't the case, he still spent the day feeling sick to his stomach. Occasionally, he even woke up to find that he had wet his bed. That's why he had to visit Jim, no matter how matter how drained it left him afterward. But he was too embarrassed to admit any of that to John when the older man complained about him seeing Jim so much.

He sighed and shoved both hands through his messy curls. He hadn't seen Jim in almost a week. A groan/whimper escaped from his throat as one long arm pressed against his upset stomach, while the other hand clutched at his bare toes. John would just have to try and understand, he thought as tears filled his pale eyes. He was full out crying when he had his nurse send John away. He pulled himself together by the time he was dressed in a white button down, black trousers, and matching black suit jacket. He chose to forgo his scarf and Belstaff.

The scene that met Sherlock's red-rimmed eyes as he stepped into room 331 was vastly different from the scene from several days ago. There were no screams. Just whimpers and muffled sobs.

"Jim?" he said quietly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Jim had already taken his medication, so he didn't have to deal with that.

"Everybody hates me here," Jim mumbled from underneath the covers, "Seb still hasn't come to visit. He probably hates me too. I hate me. Why am I even here? What's wrong with me? No one ever tries to help. They're so cold and…cruel. They whisper cruel things. Sometimes they don't even whisper. They say that I'm bad…and evil. But I'm not bad. I'm not evil, Sherlock, I'm not. I'm good. I am."

"I know you're good, Jim. I know that. They just don't understand," Sherlock murmured.

"Sometimes I dream of jumping off a really tall building. It only hurts for a second and then it doesn't and then I'm happy. I'm sad when I wake up. I want to be dead…like in the dreams."

"No," Sherlock exclaimed, yanking back the covers.

The other man was curled in the fetal position, staining his pillow with tears. His dark hair stood up all over his head.

"Don't talk like that," Sherlock pleaded, shuffling closer to the smaller male, "Please, don't…"

"I can't help it."

"Jim…I talked to my brother, and he said that you might possibly leave here one day."

"Leave here?" Jim asked hesitantly, "W-where would I go?"

"Home with me."

"I-I could come home with you and live with you and be with you all the time with no mean doctors?"

"Yes, and I'd look after you and take care of you. Would you like that?"

"Yes! Yes!" he exclaimed, throwing himself at the taller man and wrapping his arms around his neck, "I want to live with you. When can I? I want to go home with you."

"I want that too, but it won't be for some time, Jimmy. There's a lot that has to happen first," Sherlock said, running his fingers through the other man's hair.

"Like what?" he asked, pulling away to look up at him with watery brown eyes.

"Just some things. Nothing you need to worry about."

"Oh okay," he said dejectedly before perking up after a moment, "but you'll still visit me until then, right?"

"Of course. As much as I can."

"Good. I don't like not seeing you," Jim said as though he as admitting a secret.

"I don't like not seeing you either. I wish I could visit you every single day."

Jim grinned and pecked Sherlock's cheek before furrowing his brow. "You said your brother. I didn't know you had a brother."

Interesting, Sherlock thought, he remembers me and John, but not Mycroft. "Yes, he's my older brother just like Seb is yours."

"What's his name?"

"Mycroft."

"That's a funny name," Jim said, giggling, "What's he like?"

"Boring, but he didn't used to be that way when we were younger." Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"What was he like back then?"

"Intelligent and fun and caring. Now he's just dull and annoying. When we were kids, he would play with me, teach me, read to me, and look after me."

"Just like Seb used to do for me!" Jim exclaimed, climbing onto the other man's lap and leaning against his chest.

"Yes. Even though he's seven years older than me, he never treated me like I was just a 'dumb little kid' even if I wanted him to play pirates with me."

"Pirates?" Jim said, tilting his head back to look at the other man curiously.

"Yes. I was obsessed with them until the age of fourteen. I remember once when I was seven, he was looking after me for the day..."

_Seven year old Sherlock sighed as he wandered out of his bedroom, clutching his stuffed bumblebee by one tattered wing. His parents had tried to throw the bee away, stating that the seven year old was too old for such a babyish item, but Sherlock had rescued it from the trash as soon as he could. Usually, he kept it hidden underneath his mattress, but his parents were away for the weekend, leaving him in the care of a fourteen year old Mycroft, who he was searching for at that very moment. He found the older boy in their father's study, sitting at their father's desk working on a paper for school. Mycroft didn't even look up as the younger boy trudged into the room._

"_Myc, I'm dying of boredom," Sherlock whined, dropping to the floor and leaning against the desk, "Do something, p'ease." _

_The auburn teen sat back and looked down at his little brother slouched against the desk in nothing but a pair of bumblebee pants and a thin purple jumper, clutching his stuffed bumblebee. He was obviously taking advantage of their parents' absence to indulge in things they would never allow: the bumblebee and not wearing trousers. It was a surprise that he was actually wearing a jumper._

"_No experiments today, Lock?" he asked, smiling fondly at his younger brother._

"_No. Mummy threw out my jam and tadpoles before she and father left. I've got nothing to do, which is why I'm dying of boredom."_

_Mycroft stared at his brother for a moment before getting an idea. "Lock, go grab your pirate hat and sword, put on some trousers, and meet me in the backyard in fifteen minutes," he said, grinning as he set his paper aside and stood._

_Excited and curious, Sherlock hopped up from the floor and ran to his room to grab his things, pretending not to have heard anything about trousers. After a small debate with himself, he shoved his bumblebee underneath his pillow with a promise to tell him all about Mycroft's surprise later._

_Exactly fifteen minutes later, Sherlock found his older brother standing in the middle of the back yard holding his own fake sword that he hadn't played with in years and a large folded sheet of paper._

"_Lock, your trousers__" Mycroft said as the little boy ran over to him without an ounce of shame at being outdoors in just his pants._

"_We're in the backyard, Myc. No one can see me. Besides, if we're playin' pirates, they'd just get dirty anyway. We are playin' pirates, right? You're really going to play with me?"_

_Instead of answering, Mycroft handed over the sheet of paper and watched as pale eyes widened in delight when Sherlock unfolded the paper._

"_A treasure map!" he exclaimed._

"_Aye, and it's up to you, Captain Lock, to find the treasure," Mycroft said, pulling an eye patch from his trouser pocket and putting it on, "So lead on."_

_For a moment, Sherlock thought about how much more fun it would be with more people, with some friends maybe, but he quickly banished that thought. He had Mycroft, and that was more than enough. Mycroft, who stopped doing school work to create a treasure hunt for him. Mycroft, who played pirates with him even if he was a bit too old to play. Mycroft, who followed him all over the backyard and let him shout orders at him. Mycroft, who even had a sword fight with him over the found treasure chest. Mycroft, who was the best brother in the whole world, Sherlock thought as he opened his newly won treasure chest._

"_Bees!" he exclaimed, pulling out a booklet of bumblebee stickers._

"_Only stick them on your things in your room, Lock," Mycroft said from where he was sprawled out on the ground. _

"_Okay. Thank you, Myc!" Sherlock said, launching himself at the older boy and throwing his arms around his neck._

"He sounds like a good big brother," Jim said, smiling.

"He was," Sherlock agreed reluctantly, "but then he left."

"Where'd he go?"

"To University." Sherlock frowned.

"Did he, at least, come back to visit?"

"Yes, but it wasn't the same. He abandoned me and left me to deal with those imbeciles at school all by myself. All he cared about was himself and school and work. And then he had the audacity to ask me to come stay with him after he left uni. As if I'd want to live with him after he left me."

Jim bit his lip before saying, "Um, Sherlock…it kinda sounds like he went away to uni so he could get a good job and a nice flat and be able to take care of you even better. It doesn't sound like he meant to abandon you. He probably cares a lot about you."

"If that was true, then why doesn't he act like he cares? All he does is meddle in my life and annoy me on purpose and treat me like I'm still seven years old. He doesn't care. He just wants to boss me around because he has to be in charge of everything and everybody."

"Have you ever talked to him about any of this?"

"As if he'd listen to a word I say!" Sherlock said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Maybe you should try."

Sherlock huffed and changed the subject until their time was up, but he couldn't stop thinking about what Jim said. Did Mycroft really still care about him? He said he did, but he sure didn't act like it. Did he? He was constantly spying on him and telling him what to do and being annoying. Why did he do that?

* * *

John was supposed to visit again, but Sherlock felt bad for sending him away the week before, so he hid in his room until group therapy. When the sharing stick got to him, he said, "I miss the close relationship between me and my older brother more than anything." Everyone looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate, but he just shook his head and passed the stick on.

* * *

He got an unexpected visit from Mycroft that weekend. The older man was already seated in the empty room when Sherlock shuffled in wearing black and yellow socks and a matching jumper gifted to him by one of the older nurses who complained about him "not having an ounce a fat on his body to keep him warm."

"I talked about you this week," he said the moment he sat down.

"Is that so? Complaining about how fat and annoying I am?" It was said indifferently, but Sherlock could see the flash of hurt in his brother's eyes.

"Well you're not really fat anymore with all of your dieting," he mumbled.

"So just how annoying I am then, and how I live to−"

"Do you really care about me?" Sherlock blurted out.

Mycroft tried to keep the shock off of his face, but it was almost impossible. How could Sherlock ask him that? Was it not obvious? "Are you really asking me that?" he said after a moment, "Everything I've ever done in my life has been with you in mind. Everything I've done, I've done it for you."

"How? All you do is stick you big nose into my business time after time. You spy on me. You try to tell me what to do all of the time. You act like you're so much smarter than me."

The older male sighed before turning to look directly at his little brother and saying, "You're not an older brother, so you won't completely understand, but I will never stop seeing you as my baby brother, who used to run around nothing but his pants. Though that's probably because you still occasionally run around in nothing but your pants. But the point is, you're my little brother, and I'm your big brother, and I will always do everything in my power to protect you whether you want me to or not. Even if it's from yourself. And also, I know that you are smart, Sherlock. You are beyond smart, which is why it pains me to see you make such bad decisions sometimes. I am sorry if I ever made it seem as though I didn't care for you."

"I miss the way things were when we were kids. I miss the way you were when we were kids." The younger man mumbled, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jumper.

"How exactly have things changed?" Mycroft asked curiously, "I still take care of you just as I did back then. I still−"

"But back then you loved me, and you acted like it," Sherlock said, staring up at his brother through red-rimmed eyes, "You didn't act as though I was just this huge burden that you wish you could get rid of."

"Sherlock…Lock…I do still love you. That has never changed. You're not a burden. You never have been."

"Then why don't you act like you care. You're always saying 'caring isn't an advantage' and acting like I'm a bother and an embarrassment. All you care about is your image and your reputation and your job."

"I care about those things because they allow me to take care of you. Lock…" Unable to come up with the words to reassure his brother, Mycroft did something he hadn't done in over a decade. He pulled his younger brother into a hug. He was surprised when Sherlock returned the hug fiercely, burying his face in the older man's neck. The hug didn't feel as awkward as he expected it to, which made Mycroft wish he had done it much sooner. "I love you, Lock. I always have, and I always will. I promise I'll try to show it better."

"I l−I'll try too, Myc." Sherlock said, his words muffle against his brother's neck.

Mycroft had come to visit his brother to speak about him avoiding John, but he couldn't bring himself to bring it up at that moment. He was finally fixing things with Sherlock, something he hadn't wanted to do for years but had had no idea how.

**Long chapter…kinda...I think. I'll try to update this as well as my other story soon. Review if you want. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6  
**

* * *

Sherlock was going to see John today. He was looking forward to it, but he was also nervous. How could he explain why he'd been avoiding him?

He was sitting in the empty room again waiting in another jumper gifted to him. This one was striped with two different shades of purple. He was watching the door, but the moment the door opened and his best friend appeared, he looked away.

"Still don't want to see me then?" John said, hesitating before sitting down on the other end of the sofa.

"It's not that," Sherlock mumbled, watching the other man out the corner of his eye.

"Then what is it?" John asked, "I've come to visit you twice and was sent away without an explanation. Were they not allowing you to have visitors?"

"No, I was allowed to see you."

"So, you just didn't want to."

"No, I did."

"Then why?"

"I wanted to see you, John, I did. I swear. But…I needed to see Jim. I−"

"Really? So seeing him was more important than seeing me, your best friend. Why am I even here now?" John moved to stand and leave, but Sherlock caught the sleeve of his jumper.

"John, please…please don't leave. You don't understand."

John stared at his best friend in shock. He had never heard him sound so desperate since he found out about his relationship with Moriarty. "What don't I understand, Sherlock?"

The younger man bit his lip and fiddled with the sleeve of his friend's jumper. "I-I know you don't like me going to see Jim while I'm here and that you think I'm not getting better, but I am trying. I've been talking and participating in therapy. I'm trying to get better, but…I…sometimes, I wake up and I forget that Jim is alive. I can't not see him. I feel physically ill if I don't see him, and sometimes…sometimes I…I just have to see him, and I was supposed to see him at the same time that you were coming to visit me, and I already feeling terrible. I just needed to see him so I could be okay. I told myself I'd see you next time and explain, but when the next time came, I felt so guilty about sending you away the first time that I sent you away again. I'm sorry."

John stared at the other man. He looked so vulnerable and hesitant and so many other words he never would have used to describe his best friend before. Not knowing what else to do, he pulled his sleeve away from fidgeting hands before pulling the younger man into a hug.

Sherlock hesitated for only a moment before returning the embrace.

"I'm glad you've been trying harder. I really am," John said quietly.

Sherlock pulled back to look at his friend. "I talk in group therapy almost every day," he said, biting his lip, "I don't always say a lot, but I try to always say something. And I even talked to Mycroft the last time he visited, and I hugged him, and it was almost like things were okay between us. I mean, I know everything's not completely okay yet, but I'm willing to try and he seems willing to try. And it was Jim that made me talk to Mycroft in the first place, so he's helping me too because I never would have thought to say anything. Or I might have. I've been really different since before I even came here, haven't I?"

"I think you've been who you've always been underneath the mask you wear against the world," John said, staring at his best friend. "In here, there's no need for you to hide your emotions, so you've stopped a bit, and that's why you seem so different."

"Mycroft said it's because of whatever's wrong with me."

"Well that too. Have your doctors not discussed your diagnosis with you?"

"I think they did when Mycroft first brought me here, but I deleted anything anyone said to me around that time, so I don't remember," Sherlock admitted.

"You should talk to them about it at your next therapy session."

"I will," he said, nodding. He bit his lip and started to fidget with the other man's jumper sleeve again. "John, what do you think is wrong with me?"

"Um, I'm not that kind of doctor, Sherlock, so I couldn't say for sure."

"But if you had to say, what would you say?"

"Um, well, from what you said about M-Jim, I'd say you've got separation anxiety, and from what Mycroft has told me about your…harmful tendencies and the change in your behavior, maybe you might be depressed. Like I said, I'm not that type of doctor, so I can't be certain. Talk to your therapist, okay? He'll be able to tell you and talk to you about the specifics."

Sherlock nodded and changed to subject to what the older man had been up to until their time was up.

* * *

Later, he lay in bed thinking. When he was a child, most of the people around him had been sure that he'd had some type of social disorder and he had too. He'd snuck into his father's study and looked through almost every medical book he could find to figure out what was wrong with him, but nothing fit completely. There were aspects of different disorders that fit, but there were also aspects that didn't fit. The only thing that seemed to fit the most was Anti-social personality disorder. Sherlock's relief at finding what he'd been looking for was short-lived. Knowing what was wrong with him only made him feel worse. At least, when he was uncertain, he could pretend that there was nothing wrong. Knowing didn't seem to help him much, so he deleted what he'd found.

* * *

At his next individual therapy session, Sherlock asked his therapist about his diagnosis. Antisocial Personality Disorder. Mild Clinical Depression. Separation Anxiety. Even though John had mentioned the last two, finding out his diagnosis officially was distressing. He spent the rest of the day in his room curled up in his bed.

* * *

**Sorry this chapter is so short. I'll try to update sooner!  
**


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